The question lingered without an answer.
The winds sweeping over Dragonstone were mild, buffered by the subterranean warmth of the Dragonmont even when cruel winters gripped the rest of the world.
Though the island possessed little arable soil, the slopes were fertile enough to sustain the smallfolk who served the keep.
House Targaryen no longer held the boundless wealth of the Freehold, yet carve out quiet courtyards and private gardens they still could.
Raegon sat beneath the fragrant boughs of a coastal pine, looking up at the pale sky.
Dark-barked pines rose around him like silent sentinels, shielding the courtyard from the brine spray.
Neatly pruned briar roses and low cranberry bushes framed the secluded garden.
Aegon had paid for the plantings himself, using coin saved from private commissions and small merchant escorts, wanting his frail younger brother to have a peaceful retreat.
Raegon was seven namedays old.
For a child born with his frailties, surviving seven years was nothing short of a miracle.
Though his birth had been smooth, recurring bouts of burning fever had repeatedly brought him to the brink.
His childhood had drifted between the uncertainty of seeing another dawn and the quiet relief of waking up alive.
Solitude and quiet reflection had become his routine during intervals of health.
The latest fever had broken only that morning, leaving him weak in limb.
The crisp air carried the scent of pine needles and damp earth, yet it could not clear the fog resting in his mind.
Who was he?
The memories of another world, once distant and fragmented, were sharpening with every passing moon.
He reached an open hand toward the sun hidden behind the drifting volcanic veil.
His right eye, burning with radiant gold, flickered briefly before returning to its still, amber luster.
Few boys of seven carried such questions.
Raegon wanted nothing more than to live like any noble child: studying histories with Maester Garwyn, learning posture and courtly manners, sitting beside his brother and sisters as they spoke of dragonlore, climbing seaside cliffs, or raiding the buttery for sweetmeats.
Yet the dreams gave him no peace.
Whenever the fever took him, his mind drifted into the memories of another existence.
He saw himself rising from a pool of liquid light into an unfamiliar expanse.
He saw ancient entities guiding his growth, teaching him to channel storm and sun.
He watched scales of hard gold spread across his skin, casting aside mortal shape until he soared as a sovereign of the starlit void.
He saw himself taking up a blade forged of celestial fury, descending onto an eternal battlefield to purge a creeping, putrid rot.
Through the haze of fever, the call of that ancient crusade echoed in his marrow.
“Who am I?” Raegon murmured, drawing back his hand and looking down at his slender fingers.
Was he Raegon Targaryen, the fragile youngest son of an isolated island house, or was he the Sun-Shepherd, bound to scour away the remnants of corruption?
A presence in his blood whispered that he was celestial kin, destined to hunt down the rot that had fallen into this world.
With every fever, unfamiliar power gathered in his veins, bringing strange knowledge that pressed against his thoughts.
He had no idea how to bear it.
“My little sun, skipping your meal will earn you a scolding from the septa.”
A warm voice broke the quiet.
Raegon braced himself on the stone bench and looked back.
“Rhaenys.
I ate this morning.”
Sixteen-year-old Rhaenys walked into the garden, balancing a steaming bowl of dark brew prepared by Maester Garwyn.
She settled beside him with an easy smile.
“You ate bread and fruit, but you left the only thing that actually puts color back in your cheeks.”
“It tastes like boiled leather and soot,” Raegon muttered, turning his face away from the dark liquid.
“The fever is gone.
I do not need it.”
Rhaenys set the bowl down on the stone coping and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“Drink it later, then.
But do not sit out here brooding alone.
If something troubles you, tell us.
We are your blood.”
Raegon gave a quiet nod, though his gaze remained firmly fixed away from the medicine.
He had tried to convince himself that both lives could exist as one, yet the weight of that celestial inheritance terrified him.
If he fully accepted the mantle of the Sun-Shepherd, what would become of the boy sitting in this courtyard?
Rhaenys watched him drift into silence, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
The boy understands too much, she thought.
He feels our worry, and so he hides his own.
Keeping his fears locked behind his teeth would only wear him down further.
Before Raegon could pull away, Rhaenys drew him close against her chest, her chin resting gently on his silver hair.
“Rhaenys,” he protested weakly, his voice muffled against her tunic.
“I am seven namedays old.
I am not a babe.”
“You are my little brother,” she countered, refusing to loosen her grip.
She leaned down until her forehead touched his.
“Promise me, Raegon.
Stop carrying everything alone.
Whatever comes, we face it together.
Aegon and Visenya would tell you the exact same thing.”
“I know,” he whispered.
He hesitated, his voice dropping lower.
“Sister…
if one day I become someone strange…
someone you do not recognize…
what then?”
Rhaenys answered without a heartbeat of hesitation.
“There is no ‘if.’ You are our brother.
Even if you change, even if the world turns upside down, you remain Raegon Targaryen.
Nothing changes that.”
“I see,” he said softly.
He knew how much they cared for him.
His brother Aegon, his sisters, his father, and even his half-brother Orys kept track of what made him comfortable.
When their mother passed two years ago, grief had sent him into a bedridden state for moons; when Aegon took a wound during his early dragon flights, Raegon had stayed beside him through the night.
“I am tired, Rhaenys,” he said after a long moment.
“Will you take me back?”
Rhaenys smiled and rose, bending down so he could climb onto her back.
Though illness often visited him, Raegon stood slightly taller than most boys his age, yet she carried him up the winding stone stairs toward the keep with practiced ease.
The forgotten bowl of bitter herbs remained behind on the garden bench.
Back inside his chambers, Raegon slid down from his sister’s shoulders and straightened his doublet.
“Get some rest,” Rhaenys said, ruffling his hair near the door.
“Sleep cures what medicine cannot.”
Raegon nodded, watching the heavy oak door swing shut.
His bedchamber was the most comfortable in the entire fortress.
The four-poster bed draped in rich velvet had been brought from Braavos; the gilded wall sconces came from Lys; the solid weirwood and oak furnishings were shipped from the North; fine incense from the Jade Sea perfumed the hearth; tapestries from Myr hung along the walls; and the murals on the fused stone had been painted by Rhaenys herself.
His family had built this refuge for him piece by piece.
Lying back upon the soft mattress, Raegon closed his eyes.
He could no longer delay the choice.
The fever that had just broken had unlocked the full reservoir of the Sun-Shepherd’s legacy, returning fragments of abilities that once belonged to the cosmic entity.
The memories themselves were simple enough to navigate.
In that distant realm, the Sun-Shepherd had known only the commands of the great entity that brought him forth, living an existence defined solely by warfare.
It carried none of the warmth, laughter, or affection he possessed in this life.
The difficulty lay in the power itself.
The legacy rested upon three distinct paths:
The first was the path of the Wyrmwarden, which once granted the ability to take dragon shape, master the primordial draconic tongue, walk among great hosts of dragons, nurture clutches of eggs, foster draconic vitality, and heal beasts with pure solar flame.
That supreme form was gone, burned away in the crossing.
The core authority of the discipline was severely diminished.
Raegon could no longer assume dragon form, nor could he invoke high draconic sorceries or command multiple adult beasts simultaneously.
Like any other blood of Old Valyria, he was bound to a single mount.
Yet several gifts remained intact.
He could hear and interpret the low murmurs of dragons, communicate with them on an instinctual level, project an aura that could soothe or cow them, and use specific rites to warm dormant eggs and mend injured beasts.
The second path was that of the High Ritualist, which once allowed the entity to channel vast cosmic rites.
It was now reduced to three essential traits.
The first was an innate grasp of ritual magic, the very knowledge that had clouded his mind during his recovery.
These workings were potent but required elaborate preparation and material sacrifice.
The other two were passive protections: Hex Resistance and an Untainted Vessel.
These traits shielded his soul and flesh, rendering him virtually immune to mundane poisons, foreign diseases, and minor curses.
This explained why the maesters could never treat his fevers with common remedies.
His recurring sickness had never been an infection; it was simply the strain of his mortal body adjusting to the awakening of these ancient protections.
The final discipline was the Mirror-Witchcraft, and it was the one that troubled him most.
In his previous existence, the backlash of this craft posed no danger to a being formed of solar light.
To a mortal body, however, it carried severe risks.
The craft granted two working techniques: Mirror Substitution and Mirror Divination.
Yet the recurring consequence of using them was the manifestation of a Mirror-Self, a shadow born of the reflection that could turn violent if left unchecked.
He could not discard the power.
Denying it would only cause it to erupt uncontrollably later, potentially warping him into something his family would fear.
He had to master it himself.
Raegon opened his mismatched eyes, the golden pupil steady in the dim room.
Who am I?
I am Raegon Targaryen.
Son of Aerion.
Brother to Visenya, Aegon, and Rhaenys.
He did not need to abandon his bloodline to command what lay within him.
He would hold the reins himself, anchored by the family that stood beside him.
As he closed his eyes to steady his breath, a faint, rasping voice vibrated through the stone foundations beneath the floorboards.
“Help…
me…”